For granting that our Calvinism is gloomy, and our Presbyterian temperament sour, one wonders how universal this household warmth and joyousness should be beneath the roof-trees of those strong, pure men, whom the intolerant world upbraids with the names of bigot, hypocrite, and pharisee. One could wish to have this same intolerant bigot world make a tour of these Scottish Manses, from which it might return, perchance, able to give a rational judgment on the doctrine and order of Christ’s Holy Evangel, as we have held it in Scotland from the days of our fathers until now; at least might have its evil speaking hushed into silence before the devout might, which labors for the hire, not of silver and gold, but of saved souls—and the sunny godliness which is loftiest gain.
There is a rumor in the Lumsden family that, upon one evening shortly after the marriage, a certain chapter of the Epistle to the Ephesians, containing a verse which married ladies do mightily stumble at, was read in regular course: on which occasion, says the mirthful Sister Martha of the Portoran Manse, one could detect the shadow of a comic inflection in the voice of the household priest, while his wife with a certain grave doggedness, slightly bowed her strong head before the unpalatable command.
We cannot tell how the truth of this story may be, but Sister Martha laughs when she tells it, and Marjory blushes her violent blush, and the minister looks on with his characteristic smile of simple unsophisticated glee. But we can vouch for it, that Mrs. Lumsden of Portoran has become a renowned church-lawyer, mighty in the “Styles,” and great in the forms of process; whose judgment maintains itself triumphantly in face of a whole Synod, and whose advice in complicated matters, of edicts, or calls, or trials, youthful reverends scant of ecclesiastical jurisprudence, would do well to take.
Only there is growing up in the Manse of Portoran a host of little sun-burnt, dark-haired heads—all prosperity and increase to the sparkling eyes and bold brows of them!—over whose rejoicing band a little fairy sister, the joy of the minister’s heart, exercises her capricious sway, and sovereign tyranny. They are growing up, all of them, to call Marjory blessed—already for their generous nurturing “known in the gates” as hers—and hereafter still more to rejoice in the strong, gladsome, sunshiny nature to which they owe their healthful might and vigor. The prophecy and hope of her friend and counsellor is fulfilled in full: “Strength and honor are her clothing. She opens her mouth with wisdom, and in her lips is the law of kindness.”
The months passed on, and lengthened into years. Archibald Sutherland, after good work in the manager’s room, entered the firm triumphantly as Norman’s successor; before that, he had succeeded to the well-ordered house in the vicinity of Blythswood Square, which had been occupied by his predecessor Mr. Lumsden. People said it certainly needed a mistress, and very wonderful were the rapidity of those successive occasions, on which the Laird of Strathoran, clear-headed as men called him, found it absolutely necessary to repair to Redheugh to seek counsel of his friend.
His sister Isabel had made a brilliant marriage; they had scarcely any intercourse—unless some new misfortune should befall her she was lost to her early friends. Mrs. Catherine and Mr. Ferguson, under Mr. Coulter’s advice, were managing his estate. Sentences oracular and mysterious were sometimes heard falling from Mrs. Catherine’s lips, in which the names of “Archie” and “Anne” were conjoined. The house of Strathoran had been thoroughly purified. Mrs. Catherine had made sundry important additions to its plenishing; it was always kept in such order, that its now prosperous and rising possessor might return to it, at once. Anne was resident at the Tower sometimes, and knew of these processes. They tended to some new change in the eventful life of Archie Sutherland.
The Rosses of Merkland were visiting the Rutherfords of Redheugh. In the large sunny drawing-room, from whose ample windows sloped a lawn of close and velvet greensward, the whole family were assembled. The elder Mrs. Ross was mollified and melted; the younger gay and rejoicing. Lewis was in high spirits—under the regimen approved and recommended by Mr. Coulter, Lewis hoped to raise the rent-roll of Merkland a half more than it had ever been. You could see now in the large wistful dark eyes of Christian Lillie, only the subdued and serious tone proper to those who have borne great griefs without brooding over them. There was an aspect of serene peace and healthful pleasure over all the house. The three sisters, Marion, Christian, and Anne, were sisters indeed.
Without was a merrier group. Lilie Rutherford, with her youthful gallant, Charlie Ferguson, now a High School boy, lodged in a closet of his brother Robert’s rooms, and frequent in his Saturday visits to Redheugh; and Lawrie, growing a young man now, as he thought, and dubious as to the propriety of keeping company with lesser boys and girls, to whom he was very patronizing and condescending, stood by the sun-dial; while in the background was Jacky, now waiting gentlewoman to Miss Lilias Rutherford, a very great person indeed, and little Bessie, young Mrs. Ross of Merkland’s own maid.
Lilie was coquetishly making inquiries of Bessie, touching the welfare of Harry Coulter, whereat Charlie Ferguson grew irate and sulky.
“And the young gentleman’s biding at the Tower,” said Bessie; “he’s a lord noo his ainsel—and he’s been twice at Harrows.”